


multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance

by mousecookie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Shenanigans, Very Brief Suicidal Ideation, canon-compliant through c2e126, oh my god they were resonant echoes, what's sexier than narrative mirrors nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousecookie/pseuds/mousecookie
Summary: Caleb takes a step forward and stumbles.  As he catches himself he realizes something very odd.  His hands are shadowy and translucent.  His whole body is a shadow, in fact.  If he holds his palm up to the sky, he can see the stars twinkling faintly through it.Sharp talons of panic dig into his chest.  He feels solid - if he grabs his own wrist, he has mass, but it is wrong.  Everything is wrong.  What is happening?Prepare Fireball, commands a voice in his head.The voice is familiar.It takes him a moment to realize it’s familiar because it’shis.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 96
Kudos: 342





	multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance

**Author's Note:**

> So I have really been enjoying the fact that Essek's canon character arc is mirroring Caleb's so closely, but at a much earlier stage. It's sort of a question of who's got the most gravity (dunamancy pun fully intended) to pull the other towards where they're at - will Essek's fear and panic pull Caleb to regress, or can Caleb keep growing and pull Essek along with him? How do they each support each other? I thought it would be fun to explore this while tossing them in high-octane situations. I hope you enjoy!

Caleb opens his eyes and finds he is on a battlefield.

Crackling greyish-white spell energy close by leaves bright spots in his vision, illuminating dark crags and rough terrain that remind him of the Barbed Fields. 

An orange glow of fire pervades everything. What is burning quickly becomes evident as the stink of charred cloth and flesh becomes thick in his nose, making him gag, turning his mind fuzzy. He can feel himself slipping into a familiar stupor that is half memories, half oblivion. No! Not here, not now. He can’t afford to be rendered insensate when he doesn’t even know what’s going on. 

Desperately, he thinks about the Mighty Nein, envisioning their faces full of joy and laughter, and pinches the meat of his thumb sharply. He has to stay in the present. The Mighty Nein are always keeping him in the present - turning his gaze forward, instead of backward - and he hopes the thought of them has the power to do so now. 

Veth. Jester. Beau. Fjord. Yasha. Caduceus.

_They are with me. I am with them. I am not in my memories. I am with the Mighty Nein. They are with me, and I am with them, I am not in the past--_

It’s a near thing, but it works. Caleb shakes off the suffocating cottony nothingness and fully takes in his surroundings for the first time. 

The sight that greets him is not a pleasant one. There is carnage everywhere. Fallen soldiers are strewn every which way, and in the light of the moon and the pervasive flames it’s easy to identify the Aurora Watch of the Dynasty and Royal Brand of the Empire. Dozens of them. Some are burned, others crushed, unmistakably by arcane forces. By the cacophony of shouts and screams and clash of metal on metal, the fighting is far from over.

Is he in the Dynasty? Is the war back on? 

That makes no sense, he was just in… where was he… somewhere else, he is sure of it.

Caleb takes a step forward and stumbles. As he catches himself he realizes something very odd. His hands are shadowy and translucent. His whole body is a shadow, in fact. If he holds his palm up to the sky, he can see the stars twinkling faintly through it.

Sharp talons of panic dig into his chest. He feels solid - if he grabs his own wrist, he has mass, but it is wrong. Everything is wrong. What is happening?

 ** _Prepare Fireball_** , commands a voice in his head. 

The voice is familiar.

It takes him a moment to realize it’s familiar because it’s _his_. Harsher, angrier than he’s used to making it, but undeniably his own. He looks around, dizzy, and sees-- 

\--himself. 

Caleb Widogast is crouched behind a boulder nearby, staring at him with cool blue eyes. His hair is red, his face freckled. It is his own face.

This other Caleb Widogast holds himself with effortless confidence, even as he stays hidden from the battle raging around them. His coat is of a very fine Empire make, and unfastened, Caleb can see a spellbook harness visible beneath it - except it’s holding only one book instead of Caleb’s usual two. Crisp geometric tattoos are visible at his wrists where his sleeves are folded back. He looks wealthy, comfortable. The set of his chin is arrogant.

While Caleb gapes, dumbstruck, several Kryn soldiers emerge stealthily from the crags behind this new, confident Caleb, their weapons drawn with deadly intent. 

Reflexively Caleb opens his mouth to shout - to diffuse the situation somehow - but the sounds stay caught in his throat, inert. He tries again: nothing. He is mute. Another wave of panic crashes into him, smothering him, making him choke on air he isn’t even sure he can breathe.

The attempt at speaking was enough to alert his strange double and spur him into defensive action. And… Caleb has seen contempt on his own face before, in the mirrors of his youth, but the man before him is _saturated_ with it as he looks around at the Kryn. It chills Caleb down to his bones. He distantly recognizes the motions for Widogast’s Web of Fire before the soldiers are burning, burning, screaming. 

His double watches the blaze with a simmering, vicious satisfaction. There is no remorse, or even the grim affect of those who believe their actions are ugly but necessary. This man is _happy_ to watch these people burn.

Caleb sways where he stands. It would have been better, he thinks, to stay silent and watch himself be killed.

“How dare you flaunt your stolen spells?” hisses another familiar voice. 

Caleb sluggishly turns toward it and sees a handsome drow wizard in a dark, heavy mantle, floating several feet above the ground. He curls his lip derisively as he looks Caleb up and down.

It is Essek. But it isn’t Essek. Caleb is transfixed as he automatically tries to parse the details of this new uncanny doppelganger. Information is power, and he needs both quickly. 

The drow before him is physically identical to the Essek he knows. Even his mantle is the same one Caleb remembers from their first visit to Rosohna. But there is a cold, impersonal quality to his anger that is entirely foreign. Essek has never looked at him like that, not even when they’d only just met. Nothing about Essek has ever been impersonal. 

Caleb cannot recognize the friend who betrayed him in the Essek before him. He can only see the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen - a Shadowhand who doesn’t know Caleb, who never taught him, who never cared for him (and Caleb shouldn’t miss that, but he does, after seeing what indifference looks like on Essek’s face). One who never realized his mistakes or sought redemption. One who, by all appearances, is an established enemy. It makes Caleb sick to think of Essek’s brilliance bent towards deliberately causing him harm. He would, no doubt, be very good at it.

The air feels thin in his lungs. Everything about this is wrong. He is in a nightmare, he must be. He digs his nails into his own forearm. _Wake up, wake up!_ At the corners of his vision, he sees greyish-white sparks. What spell is it? What is _happening_?

“Pathetic,” says the Shadowhand, watching him. Then he calls to the boulder where Caleb’s doppelganger is hiding. “I will show you how it’s done!” 

A moment later, there is a copy of Essek across from Caleb. He, too, is translucent. Silent. Made of shadows. Poised for attack.

Caleb struggles to process what is happening to him.

 **_I said to prepare Fireball_** _,_ says his own voice in his head again, angry this time. Caleb’s hands twitch against his own volition, reaching for ghostly spell components. He fights it.

 _No,_ he thinks. _Not until I can understand._

“Your echo is truly defective, Archmage!” the Shadowhand laughs derisively. “Look at him, useless! How foolish that you thought you could ever command a spell that _I_ invented. Steal all the spellbooks you like - you will never be a match for me!”

To hear himself called “Archmage” is strange. The rank is no small feat, and it makes him think of all the people he’d have to have stepped on to make that climb. Quite a lot. But there is another matter that is far more pressing.

 _Echo,_ Caleb repeats. The word drops into his mind like a pebble into a still pond. The ripples grow, and grow, becoming larger as they expand, waves of thought cascading outward to an inevitable conclusion that he feels stupid for not realizing sooner.

_Echo._

_Resonant Echo._

_I am a discarded version of myself, called to fight for another._

_I am from a timeline that no longer exists._

_...I no longer exist._

Then, with an upheaval of grief that burns in his chest: _the Mighty Nein no longer exist._

If Caleb is a Resonant Echo, then the new family he has been so lucky to find is gone. Perhaps the individuals that comprise the Mighty Nein are scattered here in this alternate Exandria, but they are not his. His family is gone. Veth. Beau. Jester. Yasha. Caduceus. Fjord. All gone. 

His fingers itch to snap Frumpkin into existence, desperate for simple comfort from his oldest friend - but he quickly realizes that he might not have the capability any longer. Or if he does, it will count as his one spell that a Resonant Echo can cast, and he will vanish. (He considers testing this hypothesis anyway. Better to blink out of existence with Frumpkin in his arms than to linger and be used as a tool in someone else’s war; he’s had enough of that in his lifetime already.) 

Across from him, a curious thing is happening. The echo copy of Essek has dropped his battle stance and is looking down at his own hands, just like Caleb had done moments prior. His face is more open, more expressive, more familiar than the icy Shadowhand. His evident confusion, followed by panic - that is familiar too. Caleb is still in the process of experiencing it himself.

 _Are you the Essek from my timeline?_ Caleb wonders, his thoughts jumbled up and overwhelmed as he chases a glimmer of hope. _Are there fragments of the others? What happened to us? Why were we erased? How? Can we reverse it?_

He racks his brain, and remembers snatches of events - the dinner party in the Xhorhaus. Essek’s confession in Nicodranas. Reuniting in Eiselcross. Essek’s remorse and fear and trust, his determination to help the Mighty Nein. Delving into the depths of Aeor to stop the Tombtakers… and blankness. 

Aeor. Something must have happened in Aeor.

If he could just take a moment to _think_ \--

A savage bolt of purple energy shoots straight for his chest, fired by the Shadowhand, who has evidently lost patience with the situation. Caleb tries to dodge - slips on uneven footing - and expects to fall, to die, but at the last moment shadowy hands yank him forward to safety. 

The echo of Essek has saved him. 

This new Essek then turns and glares at his caster, mouth moving with furious words no one can hear. He shields Caleb with his own body, placing himself squarely in the Shadowhand’s line of fire. Defiance straightens his spine and squares his shoulders.

Delirious humor tickles Caleb’s lungs. _I asked you to become your better self, and here you are, scolding yourself directly. I suppose that is one way to go about it._

The Shadowhand stares at his rebellious echo with a mix of alarm and rapt fascination. He raises a hand to cancel the spell. Hesitates. Waits. Then lowers it again. Fascination appears to be winning out. It isn’t entirely reassuring; he looks like he wants to peel them both open and watch their insides pulse until he can figure out how they work.

“Ha!” the Archmage calls from behind the boulder. “Looks like it’s your echo that is defective! Are you really the master you claim to be? Or a little boy stumbling around in the dark?”

 **_Prepare Fireball or I will destroy you,_ ** continues the voice in Caleb’s head, furious now. **_I have no use for an echo that won’t fight._ **

Caleb ignores it. It’s easier than the first time, too, as though with increased self-awareness Caleb is growing more and more independent from his caster. It’s a small bit of power, but Caleb will use it. He will have some satisfaction even if it’s merely denying his other self the satisfaction of a successful spell.

Seeking a moment of safety, and hoping to buy more time, he pulls echo-Essek away to hide behind a rocky outcropping. Oddly, the Shadowhand allows them to go, though he watches closely. He seems mesmerized. Perhaps his echo spell has never done this before. Perhaps he’s never seen himself - any version of himself - care about someone before, or be cared for in return, and that is what’s staying his hand.

Ultimately, Caleb doesn’t particularly care what the reason is. He only has eyes for the Essek who saved him. The Essek who, now that they are safely out of sight, is looking at him with a desperate question in his eyes, one Caleb can read clearly: _are you from the same timeline as me?_

Caleb has the same question. And this man looks _so much_ like the Essek that Caleb knows. 

Up close, Caleb can see the echo’s attire matches what Essek was wearing in Aeor - the ornate metal shoulder pieces replaced by heavy furs, the make of his clothes intended for adventuring rather than high graces of court. But it’s more than that. Even in monochromatic tones of shadow, here in the flickering darkness, Caleb can see the openness of Essek’s expression. The vulnerability on full display. The guilt and shame that pinch the corners of his mouth and brow. But more importantly, there is hope there, too. They’ve been working on that with Essek - all of the Mighty Nein - nudging Essek away from his resigned fatalism as best they can. Telling him they will help protect him from assassins, that the fight is not over, that his journey is not done.

Yes, this looks like that Essek. 

How can they confirm they are from the same timeline, though? They cannot speak. They have nothing to write with. As Resonant Echoes, they have no possessions. If they use any magic, they will vanish - an echo only being able to cast one spell before it ends. Furthermore, with each second that passes it becomes more and more likely that either the Essek or Caleb who walks free in this world will lose patience and end their echo’s existence.

 _Aeor?_ He mouths, naming the place he remembers last. Essek tilts his head, his brow furrowed. Caleb tries again. _Aeor?_ He quickly takes Essek’s hand and traces the letters in Common on his palm.

Essek’s eyes widen as he interprets the message, and he nods quickly. He frowns, eyes downcast as he thinks, then turns over Caleb’s palm so he can draw two words there in reply.

_Time storm._

Caleb’s memory jolts. He remembers an icy crevasse, a strange greyish-white distortion glowing deep within it. He remembers the path crumbling, falling in, and Essek - trying to catch him - falling in behind. A _time storm_. Caleb knows little about them, other than seeing mentions in the writings of Halas describing them as a concentrated mixture of wildmagic and time energy. Even Halas himself hadn’t explored much beyond that, too focused on other interests. Caleb finds some reassurance in the unknown, however: perhaps their situation is temporary. An illusion, or a dream, or in some way reversible. They just have to figure out how to get back. Back to Aeor, back to the Mighty Nein. His family might be saved yet. At the very least he has to try. 

_Knowledge?_ He writes next, hoping Essek may have the key to all this. Unfortunately, he’s disappointed.

 _Not much_ , is the answer. An explosion rings not too far off, and Essek hurriedly grabs Caleb’s hand again to write another message. The letters tickle his palm.

_Do not cast._

_We are echoes._

_Will die._

He raises his eyebrows significantly. Caleb nods grimly in return. There is no room for error in all this - one wrong step, one spell, and they’re gone.

“There you are,” sneers a voice in Zemnian behind him. “That’s enough of that, I think.”

They whirl around to look, and Caleb’s blood freezes in his veins. The Archmage has found them. The scalding anger on his face - like he’d gladly destroy Caleb and Essek and many more and still be unsatisfied - paralyzes Caleb. It reminds him too much of the anger he’d felt as a young man, in his false memories of discovering his parents were traitors to the Empire. Visions press into his thoughts of a world where Bren Aldric Ermendrud burned his parents, and his home, and _kept going_. A Bren who started burning and never stopped. And with the title of Archmage… in all likelihood, this man has killed Trent Ikithon and taken his place. _Will you find peace in a world scorched to ash? Build a pyre for your sins and your pain?_

Caleb has felt the urge in some of his darker moments. It is a wretched, ugly thought.

The Archmage snarls and raises his hand to tear apart the very threads of his echo’s existence. Caleb feels rooted to the spot, unable to react. A simple dispel was never so terrifying before-- 

“Agh!” the Archmage cries out in startled pain as an apple-sized rock strikes his shoulder and knocks him off balance, halting the dispel. A second rock clips his eyebrow soon after, and he scrambles back into hiding with blood streaming down his face and into his eyes, hissing curses.

Caleb blinks and comes back to himself. 

Next to him, Essek is bending to pick up a third rock.

Essek - intelligent, quick-thinking Essek - is throwing _rocks_ at this vicious, powerful version of Caleb. They might not be able to cast spells without disappearing, but that doesn’t mean they can’t defend themselves. With rocks? Why not. What else can they do?

Caleb’s huff of laughter is soundless, but he does it all the same.

There is an audible laugh, too, soft and silky as it slithers from the darkness. The Shadowhand drifts into view on their other side.

“A good throw,” the Shadowhand says. “But not what I created you to do.”

Echo-Essek quickly hefts his rock in a threatening manner, but his doppelganger raises his hands in amused supplication. 

“Peace,” the Shadowhand says. “I merely wish to investigate.” He floats around them in a slow circle, looking them up and down, wielding his gaze like a scalpel as though he can carve their secrets from them with his eyes. 

Caleb doesn’t mistake his interest for safety, and neither does Essek, who steadily moves to keep a shoulder between Caleb and the Shadowhand at all times. His arm stays primed to throw the rock - as if it will do any good against a wizard who can control gravity.

Sure enough, with a casual flick of his spidery fingers the Shadowhand yanks the rock from Essek’s fingers and sends it sailing away. “I have never summoned an echo as… _lively_ as you,” he muses. “Some independent will and thought may echo the same as any other trait, I suppose. Inconvenient.”

Essek uses his newly free hand to make a very rude gesture at the Shadowhand, and Caleb has to fight another incredulous laugh. He recognizes the gesture as one of Empire origin that Beauregard taught Essek only a few days prior, when they were first entering Aeor as a group. It’s another point in favor of this being the Essek from Caleb’s timeline, and Caleb feels a pang of fondness despite the dire situation they are in. Even in such a short time traveling with the Mighty Nein, Essek has been adapting quickly to their unique blend of chaos, including their flare for irreverently breaking the script with their opponents. Though, Caleb has to acknowledge, Essek did have a knack for that already. He imagines few people would tell Ludinus Da’Leth to his face that he should “try friends sometime”. Such defiance in the face of power - especially now, against the Shadowhand - elicits a sense of admiration and kinship that Caleb isn’t fully prepared for.

It’s… nice. There are so many ways he and Essek are alike. Not all of them hurt to think about.

“Impudent,” summarizes the Shadowhand, visually dissecting his echo. “Self-aware. _Protective,_ and of a human no less _._ Yes, very... interesting.” The last word carries a rime of frost, more condemnation than praise. “How interesting, indeed.”

“Sounds like you designed a faulty spell!” shouts the Archmage from behind his cover of boulders.

“You took a mighty blow from that stone,” the Shadowhand quips promptly in reply. “Be sure you _hide_ long enough to recover yourself.”

The answering silence is ripe with fuming anger. The Archmage does not reappear, however.

The Shadowhand chuckles, mocking, then focuses laser attention back on Caleb and Essek. “Yes, this is all very amusing. But how to prevent such a thing in future? You are an aberration, and I cannot abide an unreliable spell.” As he speaks, a small melee breaks out nearby as groups of Empire and Kryn soldiers have encountered each other in the maze of rocky crags. When the fight begins to spill uncomfortably close, the Shadowhand lazily waves his hand and sends a boulder crashing into the whole lot of them, without care that his own soldiers are crushed alongside their combatants.

From his close proximity, Caleb can see the tension in Essek’s neck, and the hitch of his shoulders around sharp breaths. His hands, usually so steady and crisp in their movements, begin to shift restlessly.

 _Are you as unnerved by this version of yourself as I am of mine?_ Caleb wonders. _Does it frighten you, to see an echo of what you were, made flesh and bone? To see what you could have been if you had not changed?_

Except... the Shadowhand and the Archmage are not what _could have been_. In this timeline, they are what is _real_. Caleb and Essek are alone, in flimsy, powerless forms, an ephemeral afterthought summoned by the whim of others. In all likelihood they will soon be extinguished. They will never know what they themselves _could have been_ \- whether they would each be able to find their paths to atonement and redemption, to be tested and prevail against temptations of power, to become better, and to leave the world a better place. A small, secret part of Caleb’s mind mourns that they will never know what they could have been _together_ , either. That connection, that tension between them… it will remain frayed and unrepaired. Unacknowledged. 

They will simply be gone. Their potential, scattered. Their worst selves left to inherit the living world.

He shudders. Is there an afterlife if you never existed in the first place?

Acting on impulse, Caleb slips his hand into Essek’s and laces their fingers together tightly. Essek immediately squeezes back, hard enough to make his knuckles creak. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to keep Caleb from slipping into complete despair. They have each other, if only for a moment. 

The Shadowhand’s eyebrows fly to his hairline at the sight of their joined hands. “What a curious timeline you must hail from,” he muses, tilting his head and considering Essek with an air of bland disappointment. “I question your taste.” 

A flicker of greyish-white light makes Caleb turn his head, and hears a noise - a loose pebble kicked somewhere behind them. Nerves prickling, he shifts to put his back to Essek’s, trusting him to keep the Shadowhand busy while Caleb watches for the Archmage. Back to back, and hand in hand, Caleb and Essek stand ready against their respective alternate selves.

It’s a good thing Caleb turns to look, because sure enough, he spies the Archmage creeping to find a better vantage point. _Stealth was never my strong suit,_ Caleb thinks wryly.

The Archmage is clearly lining up for a clear shot at all three of them - both echoes and the Shadowhand. Caleb knows himself. If he were in the Archmage’s position, he’d be wondering if Disintegrate could slay two ephemeral beings and pass cleanly through to strike a third living creature. That the Archmage is apparently similar enough to him to take the same approach… well, it’s uncomfortable. But very little in Caleb’s life has been comfortable. And more importantly, they need to move. Quickly. The Shadowhand looks hale and whole, like he hasn’t been hurt much in this battle as of yet. Good. That’s good. Caleb hopes it’s enough. They don’t really have other options.

He squeezes Essek’s hand, trying to convey at least some warning of what is about to happen. If he can time this right, they might escape to live a few precious more minutes. Essek squeezes back, uncomprehending, but trusting. 

There. The rasp of a boot on rough stone. A flicker of acid-green light.

_Now!_

Caleb drops to the ground, pulling Essek with him to fall in a heap. Essek goes without resistance or hesitation. Bright green spellfire absolutely _sizzles_ through the space where they’d just been. Caleb can feel the acrid burn of it against his face as it passes, like the heat thrown off a fire. 

There is a strangled yell as the Shadowhand loses control of his graviturgy, staggers to earth, falls to his knees. He crumples forward, clutching his middle where he’s been struck. He doesn’t dissolve to ash - the Disintegrate spell has clearly failed in its namesake intent, as Caleb hoped it would, but the damage looks severe. And the Shadowhand looks angry. 

They need to run.

Caleb scrambles to his feet. Essek is fast on his heels, and together they dash away into the maze of crags.

“You will pay for that!” the Shadowhand snarls behind them, whether at them or at the Archmage, Caleb doesn’t know.

Looking back over his shoulder toward where they’ve come from, Caleb sees fire blooming like a flower in the night, and exhales in relief. The Archmage will keep the Shadowhand occupied. Caleb slows, thinking to catch some precious moments to think, but Essek yanks him to keep going, his expression wide-eyed and urgent.

It’s Caleb’s turn to trust - and with a brief hesitation, he does. It has been a slow thing, adjusting to having Essek in their party, deciding to rely on him and listen to his input. In the last few days of their journey in Aeor, Essek has fought side-by-side with the Mighty Nein, and protected them at times to great risk to himself. Regardless of his other motivations, he does seem to care whether they are safe. And this Essek has already saved Caleb twice. 

Caleb lets him pull them forward.

A second later, Caleb’s ears pop as a strange percussive noise fills the air, pressing on his eyeballs, stealing his breath. Purple-black energy erupts in a shockwave, rushing out, rushing at them. It just barely licks their fleeing heels before it recedes just as fast as it has come. Over the edge of the crags, Caleb can see a spot growing that is darker than night, deeper than shadow. It _eats_ the space it occupies, consuming light and air and everything, yet somehow also emanates a kind of radiant energy.

Essek finally allows them to stop. He slumps against the side of a boulder and points wearily at the disturbance, as if to say, _See? That is why we were running._

Caleb wipes sweat from his brow, his lungs heaving, and claps Essek on the shoulder in agreement. _Very wise, my friend._

When Essek takes his hand, Caleb’s stomach flips before he remembers their new method of communication. He is only drawing letters.

 _Dark star,_ Essek spells out. _Can kill._

Ah, a spell, most likely. Caleb is glad to have escaped it. It looks intriguing, too - perhaps he can persuade Essek to teach it to him sometime. Well, provided they get out of here in one piece. If they get out of here at all. And if this Essek is the right Essek. But for now, they have larger concerns: the din of battle is growing larger around them, and if they don’t encounter their other selves, they will certainly encounter armed forces soon. Being a Resonant Echo feels like being a paper doll - thin, fragile. A lit match could do them in. An ordinary soldier might as well be a dragon.

 _Ideas?_ He taps back against Essek’s palm. He pushes his own brain into rapid-fire mode, as best he can. _Time storm. Door?_

If they can find it, maybe they can simply leave the way they arrived.

Essek’s face turns pensive. _Maybe,_ he replies, rubbing his lip in a nervous gesture that Caleb recognizes well. The wheels are turning rapidly in Essek’s mind. _Potentiality,_ he spells next, his long fingers rushing through the long word as he traces it on Caleb’s skin, _could be scattered. For good._

 _No,_ Caleb writes back firmly, rejecting the possibility of failure. Their escape has bolstered his resolve - he and Essek might be far less powerful than the Archmage and the Shadowhand, but they still have their considerable intelligence. And they’re working together. If there is even a sliver of a chance, Caleb is going to find it, and he _will_ get back to the Mighty Nein. And he’ll take Essek with him. Their story isn’t done yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees what is becoming a familiar prickle of greyish-white light. He’d thought it was spellfire at first, but…

The time storm had been greyish-white too.

His breath picks up, and he draws on Essek’s hand, haste making him sloppy.

_Can you see time magic around us? Grey white? Small._

Essek’s eyebrows fly up - the expression uncannily similar to his double, minutes before - and he cranes his neck to look around. After a moment, he inhales sharply. Nods.

 _Flashes,_ he writes.

Caleb’s thoughts are tumbling and cascading against each other, sparking and firing as he rapidly follows as many lines of thought as he can. Residual energy of the transfer? Another storm? Or, something else? What if it’s the _same_ storm? What if--

Realization claws with electric fingers up his throat and through his chest and limbs. His heart thrums rabbit-fast in his chest as he seizes Essek’s hand to scrawl a message, each word pressed firmly to Essek’s palm as though the emphasis will make it true.

_We are still falling._

If his guess is right, they are currently in two places at once. They are falling through the time storm in an icy crevasse in Aeor, and they are experiencing the storm itself as… whatever this place is. An alternate timeline, real or imagined. But the most important thing is that it would mean they haven’t been fully scattered and destroyed. It would mean they still exist in their home timeline. It would mean that maybe, just maybe, they can get _back_. 

Essek’s eyes jolt up to meet Caleb’s, and he straightens up, excitement lifting his features. He rubs his chin and nods slowly, gaze slipping far away as he runs through his own mental calculations. He turns over Caleb’s hand to give his reply.

 _If so,_ he writes, _we may pass through? Out?_

Could it really be that simple? Can they wait out the storm, and fall out the other side? Time is probably passing differently there - like in the Folding Halls of Halas, a second in their original timeline might be minutes, hours, or even days where they are now. How fast are they falling in the real world? And, given that, how long do they need to survive in this hellscape? 

There’s no telling if dying here will erase them in the real world, or cement this new reality, or what. Caleb doesn’t want to test it.

A flash of greyish-white catches Caleb’s attention, flickering to their left, followed by a crackle on their right. They’re happening slightly more often, now, like this reality and the other are being gradually spliced together, converging. Maybe it won’t be long.

 _Worth a try,_ he replies to Essek. And then: _we must stay alive._

Essek takes a deep breath, then nods, determination in the set of his mouth. He squeezes Caleb’s hand in lieu of writing a response.

A stray arrow clatters on the stone past, making them both flinch. They need to move again. 

Keeping hold of Essek’s hand, Caleb tugs him to a run, and together they dart further into the labyrinth of jagged stones and spires. Every time they hear action approaching, they change directions to avoid it. They’re both running on adrenaline, making snap decisions, knowing each turn could be their last. The only thing that is certain is that they’ve chosen to trust each other. 

When Caleb spies a group of Empire soldiers and shoves Essek to the opposite side of the path and into a concealing shadow, Essek lets it happen without question - and the group passes by Caleb without reaction except to give him nervous looks and pick up their pace, apparently familiar with the Archmage’s echoes. 

At another point, Essek crams them both into a narrow crevice to avoid a skirmish that suddenly converges at their location. Pressed close, it’s hard to tell whose heart is beating faster - his or Essek’s. 

The skirmish moves on. 

Caleb and Essek stay where they are.

It’s a good hiding place to rest for a moment, dark with shadows to blend in with. Caleb can feel Essek’s chest heaving with jagged breaths as they take a moment to recover. His own lungs are burning too. Exhaustion prickles in his limbs, and he drops his forehead to rest on Essek’s shoulder. Essek tips his head to the side, his cheek against Caleb’s hair. Seconds drip by, too slow and too fast, as Caleb focuses on the weight of Essek against him.

They can do this. If they stay together, if they watch out for each other, they can survive.

That it feels so calming to hold each other like this… well, that is something for Caleb to untangle later. 

Iridescent time energy blossoms behind them, further into the nook. It fades quickly, but the light it generates is enough to illuminate their shapes to several passing Kryn soldiers. 

“Who’s there?!” demands the closest one, brandishing a wicked-looking pike. “Come out, slowly!”

Their brief respite is over.

Essek straightens up and disentangles himself, features smoothing into a cool approximation of the Shadowhand. He’s very good at it, enough to be unnerving, but for the moment Caleb can only be grateful as Essek sweeps out of hiding and gestures imperiously at the Kryn.

“Ah, Shadowhand, apologies, we did not know--!” stammers the soldier who had spoken, taking hurried steps back and lowering her weapon. She looks terrified.

Essek waves them impatiently onward, pulling a face as though the soldiers are not worth speaking to. The soldiers flee, as fast as if they had encountered the Archmage instead of their own commander.

Caleb emerges from their hiding place just in time to see Essek’s haughty mask fracture as his eyes remain trained on where the soldiers have left. Caleb thinks about Vurmas Outpost, and how the soldiers there had treated Essek with a sort of neutral respect - not warm, but evidently mutual. He recalls Essek saying multiple times, in messages and conversations, _I am responsible for the people here._ It must be painful to see his alternate self has chosen to terrorize the people under him instead. Caleb certainly feels that way about the Archmage. 

_We are each feared by our own people in this timeline,_ Caleb thinks. _And with good reason. But we can’t afford to be distracted._

He takes Essek’s hand, breaking him from his reverie. _He is not you,_ he spells hurriedly, then pats Essek’s cheek, just once. Essek swallows, and nods. 

They move onward. 

All the while, the flashes of time magic are slowly becoming more frequent, creeping like fog and flickering like lightning. There is always some of it visible now, anywhere they look. They even walk through a section of it by accident when it settles across their path; it tingles faintly, like static electricity, but otherwise leaves them unchanged. These patchy wisps of it must not be enough. It can’t be long now, though. Caleb can feel it. 

The next corner he turns, he takes an arrow in the thigh. 

He gets a glimpse of nearby battle as he stumbles backward and falls, clutching where the arrow protrudes from his skin, pain crashing over him like a wave. Essek’s panicked face appears in his field of vision, his lips moving soundlessly in what are clearly the syllables of Caleb’s name. Caleb grimaces and shuts his eyes against the agony radiating from his leg. He’s still here. That’s good. He can focus on that. He hasn't vanished.

He’s dimly aware of Essek pulling him up and frantically dragging him away from danger to somewhere close by. When they come to a stop, Essek’s hands flutter over him, looking for the extent of the harm, or perhaps simply reassuring himself that Caleb is still corporeal. It’s pure luck that the wound wasn’t severe enough to deplete an echo’s meager life-force, and they both know it.

If they ever get out of here, Caleb will have a new appreciation for his normal shape. As a wizard he’s used to being “squishy”, but he does at least have some assurance that he won’t be felled by a single arrow.

_If they ever get out of here._

Hope is getting slippery in his mind’s grasp. 

Essek, though, is easier to hold onto: he supports Caleb as best he can as they keep moving. They’re slower now, with Caleb’s injured leg, but it will have to be enough.

They reach a clearing that forks into several different directions. In a pattern well-established by now, they pause to listen for whichever route sounds the quietest. Unfortunately, this time, there is no clear path. The battle is all around them. They turn back the way they’ve come, and hear shouts and clammer from that direction too. 

They’re boxed in.

Greyish-white magic shimmers like a haze now, obscuring the area more and more. It provides some cover, but it goes both ways - it’s hard to tell where danger might come from.

And danger does indeed arrive.

Out of the swirling ether, the injured Shadowhand appears like a vengeful ghost. Across the other side of the clearing, a burst of flame reveals the Archmage as he attempts to burn away the time magic obscuring his vision. Caleb and Essek are caught right between them. There is nowhere to run. There aren’t even any decent rocks nearby to fling.

Caleb easily recognizes the initial motions for Fireball from the Archmage, and Gravity Sinkhole from the Shadowhand. It’s unclear whether the doubles are aiming at each other, or at Caleb and Essek. Ultimately it doesn’t matter. They’re in the line of fire either way, and the combined spell blast radius is too big to avoid by ducking or dodging.

There is no escape.

Time magic hums in his eardrums, static rising to a fever pitch as greyish-white energy crackles and fills the space. Fire and purple eldritch energy consume the spaces on either side of them. He can feel the heat of it barreling at them, ready to obliterate them into nothing. 

He and Essek embrace: an instinct in the face of certain death.

Caleb’s vision whites out.

For a hazy second, there is nothing except the feeling of Essek in his arms, who is holding him tightly in return, suspended in weightless calm. 

And then Caleb’s stomach lurches to his throat, sudden cold air freezing his lungs as they are falling, 

falling,

falling, 

_CRASH!_

Blunt impact from their landing bludgeons him away from Essek and his world becomes full of pain and cold. His whole body throbs, his ribs burn. His next exhale is a labored groan, and he can hear Essek close by in a similar state. He cranes his aching neck and sees, above them, a staticky storm of greyish-white magic. All around them is ice, narrow walls that stretch up and up. They are back in Aeor.

They have fallen through the time storm.

By all appearances, they have landed at the bottom of the crevasse, ostensibly in the timeline they both hail from. He raises his hand to look at it: it is solid, pale, and freckled, as he expects. A glance tells him that Essek is also his normal corporeal self. They are echoes no longer.

“Well that was something,” Caleb croaks, simply to reassure himself he has regained the power of speech. His lips feel chapped, his throat rough.

“...Indeed,” Essek replies, hissing in pain.

They sit up and look at each other. Caleb notices that there is no longer an arrow in his leg, or even a puncture wound. It merely feels sore.

 _“Cayyyyyyyy-leeeeeeebbbb!!!!”_ comes a distant shout, reverberating through the narrow space. _“Essssssss-eeeeeeeeekkkkk!!!! Shout if you’re okayyyyyyyy!!!”_

Jester. Oh, how good it is to hear her voice! 

Caleb hurriedly clears his throat to shout back. “We are here! We fell through, just need to get back up!”

He looks back to Essek and gives him a lopsided grin. “I would guess hardly any time has passed at all here. Seconds, or maybe a minute at most, if the storm slowed our fall.” 

“I would agree,” Essek replies, gingerly wrapping his cloak around himself. He looks up at the time storm with a deeply conflicted expression. “I would love to study this phenomenon.”

Caleb is surprised to find his own feelings are a little more biased, and not in the direction he expects. The power of manipulating time is still a very seductive concept - it would be a lie to say he wouldn’t study this time storm if given the chance - but he feels the importance of the present reality more keenly than he ever has before. Seeing a timeline gone so wrong casts in relief the advantages he has with things the way they are - the Mighty Nein, most of all. He feels them anchoring him to the present, and to the urgency of their mission in Aeor. He can see a future with them too. A future for his country, if he can help to fix it. None of that involves going backwards in time. Remembering, yes. Using it. But the idea that it can be wiped clean feels more and more like a fairytale.

He rubs at his forearms. “I’ll remember where this is, in the event we are able to return another time. But for now, I suggest we get back to the group.”

Essek nods his agreement, then sighs and shakes his head. “How are we even certain we’re back in our own timeline? If the two of us are even from the same timeline to begin with?”

“A very good question,” Caleb replies, “though like researching the storm, not one we have time to fully explore at the moment.” He looks around them. “This seems right to me, and perhaps it seems right to you. While we were in the other place, I wasn’t sure at first that you were you - you know, that perhaps the Essek there summoned a different echo, who never knew the Mighty Nein, or who was different in some other way. But I have a very good memory, and by the end I felt confident that you were our Essek.”

“I certainly hope I am your Essek,” Essek replies, then realizes what he’s just said. He blushes and coughs. “Ah, I mean--!”

“I know what you mean,” Caleb interrupts, a warm curl of amusement finding its way through the pain of their rough landing. Yes, he knows both meanings of that statement, whether Essek meant to verbalize it or not. 

_“Cayyyyyyyyy-leeeeeeeb!”_ comes from above again.

“We are working on it!” Caleb yells back. He wonders if they are close enough for his Message spell to work. It’s quick work to wrap a bit of copper wire towards his finger and point upward, thinking of Jester as his target. “Jester - we fell through that bright cloud you see there. Do NOT do the same. We’re at the bottom of a very steep canyon, and will need to find a way out that doesn’t involve going through the cloud again. We’re a bit bruised, but otherwise unharmed.” Then, as an afterthought, “You can reply to this message.”

 _“WHOA, this is so COOL! Cay-leb, why do you not use this more?”_ Jester’s voice bursts right into his mind, loud and bright and colorful. It’s a balm on his frayed nerves. _“We totally thought you were dead, glad you’re okay… you need any help? Ideas to get up?”_ She seemed to be slipping into the habits of the Sending spell, truncating her phrases. _“Let me know! Don’t stay down there too long making out with Essek--”_ The message cuts off.

Caleb feels his face heat up a little, and he scrubs his hand across his chin for something to do.

“What did she say?” Essek asks, watching Caleb’s face closely. His head is cocked to listen to the faint noises of the Mighty Nein above. Perhaps he was able to hear the syllables of his name in Jester’s reply.

“Just to come back up quickly,” Caleb replies, evading Essek’s gaze in favor of scanning their environment. “Perhaps the storm doesn’t completely block the way down here. If we can find a gap, maybe, and avoid risking a teleportation spell…”

“Right,” Essek agrees, lurching stiffly to his feet. He immediately begins to float a few inches, and his shoulders sag with relief as he takes weight off his tired limbs. 

_“Caleb, I’m so glad you’re okay,”_ Veth’s voice appears in Caleb’s mind this time. _“And... Essek too, I suppose. We’re going to drop things in all the other cracks we can find up here, maybe one will end up where you are, and you can use it as a marker to get back up. We can lower a rope or something. Be careful, please. You-can-reply-to-this-message.”_

“Veth,” Caleb answers, smiling warmly. Even after all this time, he will always enjoy when she uses the first spell he ever taught her. “It’s good to hear your voice. We’ll look out for what you drop. See you soon.”

He ends the message and sees Essek is looking at him, his own smile hovering around his lips, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to wear it. It softens his face, erasing the stress and panic Caleb has become so used to seeing there. Caught looking, Essek hurriedly drops his gaze to the ground.

_Oh._

Well. There are some very complicated feelings Caleb has about that, which he will need to sort out. Later. (Always later.)

“The others are going to drop things from above, and maybe it will show a place not covered by the storm,” Caleb reports, indicating the far ends of the icy chasm that they have not explored.

“Right,” Essek agrees. 

They separate and begin to search, looking up for cracks further in the ice, and looking down for things that might have been dropped by the Mighty Nein. 

“Over here!” Essek calls from the other end of the crevasse, not long after. He seems to be in a tunnel, the ice a deep blue. In his hand he holds a heavy brass button.

Joining him, Caleb looks up to see a channel through the ice above. It’s narrow and unwelcoming, but it doesn’t carry the threatening fog of the time storm. 

Caleb sends another message to Veth. “We found your brass button,” he reports. “It looks like we might be able to get up, though I’m not sure there is enough rope-”

“I may be able to, ah, levitate us there,” Essek interrupts.

“-but Essek says he can get us out,” Caleb finishes.

 _“Okay, we’re lowering some rope anyway just in case,”_ Veth replies. _“We’re waiting here to pull you up, you just say the word.”_

Caleb nods to himself, then looks to Essek. “So, up we go?”

Essek fidgets, and drops a few inches to set his feet on the ground. “Yes, though, ah- in my current state, I am only able to levitate myself. You will need to hold onto me, and I to you.”

Something about the way Essek won’t quite meet his eye makes Caleb suspect this is not the whole truth. There seems to be no malice or trickery in it, though. Just Essek’s nervousness.

“Easy enough,” Caleb replies, and steps forward to loop his arms over Essek’s shoulders. After being in such close contact during the events of time storm, the physical closeness doesn’t feel as awkward as it could. When Essek’s arms slip around his middle, and they lean together, Caleb notices something else. “You are shaking,” he realizes, and pulls Essek more tightly to him. 

Essek exhales sharply. “Just the cold. Are you ready?”

“Ja,” Caleb confirms.

Essek doesn’t move. He takes a breath, then says in a rush. “I am glad you are alright. When I first saw you, first realized what was going on, and he-- I-- almost killed you. More than once. I’m sorry. It seems I cannot stop doing wrongs to you.”

“You are not him,” Caleb reminds him firmly. 

“I was as good as, once.”

Caleb pulls back and takes Essek’s face in his hands. “But not any longer,” he says firmly. His conviction is strengthening as he continues, “Just like I am not the Archmage we saw there. I could have been him. And what I am now doesn’t change the terrible things I have done before. But we are both forging new paths for ourselves. We are not echoes here, Essek. We have agency, power, to choose our own fates.”

Watching Essek’s path mimic his own so closely has been painful. He’s familiar with the guilt, the shame, the self-hatred that gnaws at a person from the inside out, consuming and obliterating all hope. He’s familiar with the tantalizing promise of a clean slate, if only he could turn back time with the right spells… But when he thinks about Essek undertaking the same end, he can begin to see flaws in those desires. 

If Essek was to go back in time and choose not to steal the beacons, what would the far-reaching ramifications be? How would it redirect the path of the Mighty Nein and all the good they have managed to accomplish? Would Caleb be able to time travel at the same time to achieve his own ends? Would Essek, alone without friends, fall prey to other mistakes once he got to the past? Would he have the wisdom to shepherd the timeline to its most ideal state? ...Would Caleb, for that matter? 

The uncertainty of all of these questions is a compounding, fractaling thing, growing more complicated the longer he thinks about it.

Essek’s eyes flutter shut, and he tilts his cheek against Caleb’s hand. “I don’t know what to think, anymore,” he admits, voice becoming rough. “Recently, I… I have come to believe that the only way to truly fix all the harm I’ve caused is to go back and erase it. Erase myself, even, if necessary. But all of you… the Mighty Nein… I don’t want to give you up, either. I am a selfish creature after all, Caleb, because I don’t want to sacrifice that. The feeling of being… trusted, however briefly. Of being known. Perhaps that makes me all the more monstrous.”

It’s uncanny, the way Essek seems to tap into the same inner turmoil that has been simmering in Caleb’s heart for long months. 

Caleb’s parents deserve to live. Of that, he is certain, and he would make it happen if he could. But the method… everything else… is a twisting mire of unknowable consequences. 

If he, Caleb, was to go back in time and prevent his young self from being taken in by Trent Ikithon, would it mean that Nott the Brave would be alone in her jail cell when time came to that? Would Caleb be able to fix her story, as well, and give her back the time lost with her family? What if he’s not able to find her? What about the rest of the Mighty Nein? It is coming together that has healed each of them in some way. They have grown together and stronger like tree branches overlapping. In turning back time, would Caleb destroy the livelihoods of the people he loves most here in the present? How can he choose between his parents and the Mighty Nein? How can he define the greater good? 

The more he thinks about fixing his past, the more it feels like a gross oversimplification. It no longer fits him, like an old shirt that he has grown out of, all elbows and knees and unsure where to go next. He doesn’t have the perfect thing to say to Essek, to tell him what’s right, because he doesn’t know it himself. It is easier, ultimately, to focus on the threat of the Somnovum. 

“I don’t have a good answer for you,” Caleb admits, gentling his words with a swipe of his thumb on Essek’s cheek. “I don’t know whether it’s more selfish to want to fix the past, or keep the present. I don’t know which has the better outcome. I don’t know, Essek.” He rests his brow against Essek’s, frustration making his blood itch. 

He hears Essek’s breath catch, and recognizes it as a fissure in Essek’s crystalline composure he could easily break open if he tried. One strike of a chisel, the right words, would do it. Essek would be shattered into pieces before him. 

Instead, Caleb leans back, takes a deep breath, and collects himself, before urging Essek to look at him again. “What I do know is that our friends are at the top of this ravine, waiting for us to help them stop a threat to this very plane of existence. And we should return to them.”

Essek lets out shaky breath and nods. “You’re right.”

 _“If you need a little time for some hanky-panky, just say the word,”_ Veth’s voice sounds in Caleb’s head. _“Only we’re getting a little worried up here. Please-reply-to-this-message.”_

Caleb winces. “Don’t worry, Veth, we are heading up right now.”

He and Essek look at each other for a long moment. There is so much to say, and so very little time to say it. His feelings about Essek - his feelings _for_ Essek - are as complicated as his conundrum with time travel, as complicated as how he views himself. All three things are hopelessly entangled.

Essek’s cheek is soft under Caleb’s hand. 

He pulls away, but only to wrap his arms around Essek’s shoulders again. Holding onto Essek like this for the purposes of travel is indistinguishable from a hug, and he inhabits the ambiguity like he does in so many areas of his life. Besides… Caleb suspects that Essek doesn’t actually need to hold him like this for the spell to work. He’s seen Essek float and levitate a large object at the same time. But if this is the justification Essek needs to ask for comfort… well, Caleb isn’t going to judge. He feels rather in need of it himself. 

“Ready?” he murmurs in Essek’s ear.

Caleb feels the expansion of Essek’s ribs as he sighs and tightens his hold on Caleb’s waist. “As I’ll ever be,” he replies. He’s not shaking so much anymore, and the tremors quiet further the longer Caleb holds him.

Their ascent out of the crevasse with graviturgy is slow and cautious. The channel is narrow - almost too narrow for two people - but they manage it. Halfway up they see the rope that was thrown down by the Mighty Nein, and use that too. They go up, and up, and up.

There was never a more welcome sight than the Mighty Nein waiting at the top to greet them. Hands pull them up and set them on their feet.

“It’s good to see your faces,” Caleb says with great relief. He lets go of Essek, but remains close.

“You saw us barely five minutes ago,” Fjord points out.

“It was a very long five minutes,” Caleb replies. “We can explain later. Essek saved my life a few times.” He claps Essek on the back.

The rest of the Mighty Nein looked at Essek with raised eyebrows.

Essek clears his throat. “There was… Caleb saved me as well.”

“Wait, so what happened?” Beau asked, eyes narrowed. “What’s that cloud thing? There was only like, a minute where we didn’t hear from you after you fell, and after that you said everything was okay.”

“Later,” Caleb insisted. “The important thing is we’re back up here, only a little worse for wear. Thank you for the button, Veth, it was very helpful.”

Essek straightens. “Ah - I still have it.” He draws the brass button from his robes and holds it out to Veth. “Thank you.”

Veth looks at him with narrowed, appraising eyes, then back at Caleb, then back to Essek. “You keep it,” she decides finally. “It sounds like you’ve earned it.”

“...Oh,” Essek says, looking rather touched. He worries the shiny button between his thumb and forefinger. “Ah… thank you, I… ah… I will take good care of it.” With a flick of his hand, the button vanishes into his wristpocket. Caleb wonders if Jester’s parasol is also crowding the pocket dimension beside Essek’s spellbook.

“See that you do,” Veth replies, hands on her hips.

“Well. Onwards, I think?” Caleb says, rubbing his hands together. Despite the chaos of recent events, he feels a bit more settled, more sure of himself. Momentum in the right direction. He feels a little better about Essek, too - Essek is growing so fast, evolving, traversing Caleb’s old patterns with lightning speed. The hurt is still there. The betrayal, too. Those wounds will be slow to heal. But his worry that Essek will pull him backward - a gravitational pull towards his familiar follies - is lessened somewhat. The Mighty Nein are apparently beginning to anchor him to the real world, just like they have done for Caleb.

“Yes. Onwards,” Essek agrees, meeting Caleb’s gaze in a way that is almost shy.

“Okay, we are definitely getting the whole story later,” Beau grunts, looking between the two of them. “Because there clearly is one.”

“And you will,” Caleb assures her. “But for now, just all of you make sure no one else falls in that crack over there.”

Fjord edges away from it. “Noted.”

“Oh! One last thing,” Caleb says. With a snap of Caleb’s fingers, Frumpkin appears. The sight of him is like breathing fresh air after being trapped underground, and Caleb’s posture slumps in relief. Caleb scoops up his familiar and buries his face in Frumpkin’s soft fur, answered by a steady rumbling purr. “Hello, best boy,” he murmurs.

Frumpkin licks his ear with a sandpaper tongue.

“Are you alright, Caleb?” Veth presses, watching him with concern.

“Ja, good enough,” Caleb replies. He cuddles Frumpkin for a moment before holding him out to Essek. “Will you hold him for a while for me?”

Essek blinks. “Ah? Oh, ah… yes, yes of course. If you wish.” He takes Frumpkin and holds him awkwardly.

“He might enjoy being inside that fur coat,” Caleb nudges. “Here.” He helps Essek settle Frumpkin into the fur-lined collar of his cloak, right up against Essek’s chest, his face peeking out next to Essek’s chin.

“Aww, that’s nice,” says Caduceus.

“Oh my gosh, that’s so CUTE!” Jester exclaims.

“It is a bit adorable,” Yasha says with a quiet smile.

“Just hold him for me for a while, ja?” Caleb says, like Essek is doing him a favor.

“Of course,” Essek repeats. His eyes are beginning to look a little wet.

Caleb gives Essek’s shoulder a squeeze, then turns and ushers the group to move on. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Essek lean his cheek on the top of Frumpkin’s head.

They descend deeper into Aeor, and closer and closer to the formidable task of defeating Lucien and stopping the return of the Somnovum. Together, though, the journey is not quite so long. Together, there might be a chance. The alternate timeline was proof enough of that.

For the moment, Caleb Widogast has his feet in the present, and his eyes on the future.

It’s the best he can do. One step at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> If Essek gets stuck in the anti-magic cone while fighting the Tomb Takers, he can and will throw rocks at Lucien. 
> 
> The title is a line from a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem, relevant stanza below:
> 
> _Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,_   
>  _Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;_   
>  _But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;_   
>  _And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence._
> 
> It seemed a fitting verse to describe both the concept of the time storm and the nature of resonant echoes, and all the fun ways those might overlap. Poetry make brain go brrr.
> 
> If you liked this fic, I do more yelling about Critical Role and other things on tumblr - I'm [ariadne-mouse](https://ariadne-mouse.tumblr.com/).


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